In which Our Hero describes what it's like to be stranded in the middle of nowhere with no car, no job, no money, and worst of all, no cigarettes.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

In which Our Hero is rick rolled in the god damned bathroom.

Now that my bubbling ire has subsided in regards to a giant vat of cherry-flavored Rita's Ices currently languishing in the freezer downstairs (like toilet-clogging bowel movement, it was simply taking up too much space in my little mini-fridge), it's time to relate the horror show that was my weekend.

As I mentioned, Third Party's parents were here for an overnight, plaguing us with their nasty presences. They left New York on Saturday morning, promptly sat in traffic for about 6 hours, and finally got here sometime in the late afternoon, nice and extra surly. This is a remarkable feat, considering that TP's mother has the temperament (and the shrill Noo Yawk accent) of Fran Drescher high on motherfucking Angel Dust.

I got a free lunch and dinner out of the deal, which was nice but a rather high price to pay, considering how I had the distinct pleasure of tagging along while TP's meat head father completely ignores his shiny new GPS and gets us terribly lost on our way to their hotel to drop off their bags. We got to take the fucking longest shortcut ever, through the wilds of former Pennsylvania railroad towns that have since degenerated into places even "the nigras" wouldn't be caught dead in.

We finally pull up to the goddamn Best Western in Limerick and, to my absolute horror, this is what fills my view:

JESUS FUCK LOOK AT THIS

Yeah, that's right. There's a god damned nuclear power plant in the fucking hotel's back yard. It just then that I suddenly remember that Three Mile Island is in Pennsylvania.

Well, weekend couldn't get any worse, right? What could possibly be worse than spending the entire weekend with some shrill harpy and her devoted, balding, metrosexual manchild of a husband?

Well, after they'd gotten checked in, they decide to take Third Party shopping at the nearby outlet stores (again, with the fucking Pillars of Death in full view beyond the parking lot), where finally I'd had enough from ducking into overcrowded stores stuffed with overpriced crap and excuse myself in order to go to the bathroom.

Finally, peace and quiet. I can get a few moments to myself, I think, maybe take a seat, read some graffiti, leave some of my own perhaps. I choose the handicapped stall; I like the roominess. It feels comfortable - it may very well be bigger than the room I'm renting upstairs at Chucklehead Estate - and I settle in for a nice 5 to 10 minute break. I light some candles, put down a throw rug, hang my favorite picture of David Hasslehoff on the wall. Of course, as soon as I really start feeling comfortable is when the boring, inoffensive pussy music being piped in over the speakers ends and something else comes on.

We're no strangers to love....

I blink, disbelieving, as the first bars of a new song shoot through my ears and bypass the cognitive centers of my brain and light up the part that handles incensed rage like a fireworks show.

You know the rules, and so do I....

Even in the fucking bathroom, the one place I have that is completely and utterly mine even if it's just for a few minutes, even here, my god damned Fortress of Solitude, the Universe decides to troll me. Hard.